It’s apple picking, applesauce time ~ September 8, 1994

David Heiller

We picked apples on Saturday, I’m not sure what kind they are. They are soft and early. When you cut into them, they turn brown before your eyes.

But boy do they make good applesauce. Just ask Cindy.

1983: Our apple tree and I were both in full bloom!

Every year I bring in two five gallon buckets of these big apples into the kitchen. Every year she groans like Atlas. And every year she makes the world’s best applesauce.

It starts with the picking. This year Noah and his friend, Ryan helped me. They climbed the step ladder and reached what they could. Then I climbed and reached what I could. I tossed them down to the boys, who put them in the buckets.

Since it was Ryan’s first time picking apples with us, he got to hear my only apple joke. It’s an old joke, passed down from the beginning of time.

ADAM: “What’s worse than biting into an apple and seeing a worm?”

EVE: “Biting into an apple and seeing half a worm.”

I told the boys about picking apples as a part-time job when I was in high school and college. It was my favorite job ever. Working outside, at your own pace. Struggling with big trees and sparse apples, then coming to a stretch of firesides that you could pick from the ground.

I told the boys about the time I almost lost a job. It happened at Fruit Acres, an apple orchard by La Crescent, Minnesota. We were picking early apples. They bruised easily. The stems would often pull from the apple. That’s forbidden in apple picking, because they spoil easier and their value goes down.

But pickers get paid by the bushel, 40 cents back then. The faster you pick, the more money you make.

Apples, a late summer and fall constant.

After I sent my first 20-bushel bin in that day, I received a warning from Emil, the field hand who picked up the apples on his Ford 8N tractor. Too many bruised, stem-less apples, he said. Better slow down.

I didn’t. The next bin, the owner’s son came out in person. He had a bunch of bad apples in his hands, apples I had picked. Another bin like these, he said, and you’re fired.

I slowed down, and made less money. But I kept my job, and learned a lesson about quality control that I still remember.

We cored the apples on Sunday, and Cindy filled two huge pots. They slowly turned to mush. Then she ran them through a colander. Then she seasoned them with sugar and cinnamon. I’m not sure all that she did. I couldn’t have done it. It took all day. After supper, it was done.

More apples!? More luscious work!

If there is anything more delicious than warm, fresh applesauce, please tell me.

Served on a dish of ice cream. Wow.

We scooped it into quart bags for the freezer. I made a mess on the stove and counter. But not as big a mess as my brother and I made once.

This was about 30 years ago. Mom was at a VFW Auxiliary meeting. Danny and I were scooping applesauce out of a bowl, and for some reason, Danny flung a spoonful at me.

(Be prepared for a letter to the editor. He will deny this.)

Oh those boys...

A light clicked. I grabbed a bowl and a spoon, and positioned myself behind the kitchen table. He was in the corner by the stove. We proceeded to have the best (and only) applesauce fight in the history of Brownsville.

What fun, flinging spoons full at each other. Ducking just in time, hearing the “glop” of the throw hit the counter or wall.

When we were out of ammo, we carefully cleaned up our mess, and retired to the bedroom. When Mom came home, we heard her mumble. I think she was stuck to the kitchen floor. Then came “Boys,” in that ominous tone that mothers save for special occasions.

She found applesauce one year later. Best darn applesauce I ever ate. Until Cindy’s.
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Editor’s note: Sure enough, just as David predicted later that same week came this letter, which we printed in the following issue:

Sour apples from brother Danny

Editor, Askov American:

Whoa boy, stop the apple presses. Just finished your Behind the Lines column about apple picking and all I can say is… applesauce schmap­plesauce. Whatever gave you the idea that I, your dear, innocent, falsely-ac­cused, heck-of-a-good-guy, ex‑marshmallow salesman, wouldn't‑hurt-a-fly, give-you-the-shirt-off-my‑back, hamburger-loving, Chevy-driving, rootin-tootin, all-American, brother would start an applesauce fight? I believe it was you, David, who fired the first volley and on that you can depend. God bless America.

DANNY (self-defense) HEILLER

Cottage Grove, MN